Catch
by Wanda A. Streigh
Summary: He's the Boy who Lived. She's fifteen and unaware that she's a witch. After a chance meeting and a scuffle with dementors, she is swept into the wizarding world, where the two find adventure, friendship, betrayal, and more. Begins in the fifth book.
1. Chapter 1

_Hey, guys! This is my first story ever, so I hope you like it. It's told in first person by Olivia Thompson, who enters the wizarding world at the ripe, old age of fifteen, much to her surprise. I'm going to try to keep spelling and grammatical errors to a minimum, but nobody's perfect. Oh, and by the way, Harry enters in the third chapter. I wanted to put some character and plot development, you know. Anyway, enjoy!_

Chapter 1: **Just a Day**

"Olive, are you even listening to what I'm saying?" Sasha's voice stung my ears and I knit my eyebrows together, frustrated.

The sun was beating down upon us, crushing us under wave after wave of excruciating summer heat and making us feel lethargic. Sweat dripped down our necks as we walked back to the bus stop. And the squeaking sound that Sasha's new combat boots were making against the pavement was irritating the hell out of me.

Sasha, my sister, my fraternal twin, was glowering up at me. Her face, rounder than mine, wore an annoyed expression and she sighed in exasperation as I met her gaze.

Her hair, which she wore down in loose brown waves, clung to her face and neck with her perspiration. She wore a tiny miniskirt, a wonder of smallness, really, seeing how short my sister was in the first place. Sweat stuck to her loose T-shirt, which proclaimed the name and logo of some old, little-known band that neither of us had heard of before Sasha had met Eric.

Eric, the boy that we had met at a McDonald's a few months ago down in London, for whom she wore this shirt and those stupid, annoying boots, the boy that Sasha talked about incessantly day in day out, was, in my opinion, an idiot. And that idiot was the reason we were down here in Little Whinging. Sasha had excitedly asked me to tag along on one of their dates. I had reluctantly accepted. So now, four hours of hanging out at Eric's house and feeling like the third wheel later, here I was, practically dying of heat exhaustion (okay, perhaps I'm exaggerating a little). Needless to say, my opinion of him was not improving under the circumstances.

"Olive," Sasha repeated, this time a little less piercingly. "He's the one I like, okay? Just get used to it; it's not going to change, no matter how much you don't like it."

I scowled, coming to a stop next to the bus stop sign. Sasha harrumphed loudly, sitting down on the bench, pulling out a book from her messenger bag, and burying her nose within it before I could blink an eye. I stared forlornly down at my shoes.

To be honest, I couldn't pinpoint why I disapproved of Eric. Perhaps it was because he seemed to have an air of arrogance about him, despite his baggy, black T-shirts and sagging pants. Perhaps it was because when Sasha and I had first met him, Sasha had started to flirt with him and had flipped her hair nonchalantly right into my face. Or just maybe he had started out on the wrong foot because of his twin small talk, a pet peeve of mine. The "Oh my goodness, are you two twins?"-"Which one's older"-"What's it like having another you?" talk which I had been witness to my whole life and which both bored me and exasperated me at the same time.

A group of about half a dozen people had started to congregate around the bus stop area, and I watched as Sasha scooted to the right on the bench to make room for a lanky, headphone-blasting boy and a cheerful, chattering family of three. Staring at the happy mother, the father, whose arm was wrapped around her, and their child, their small, laughing little girl, made me realize in one, stomach-clenching moment why I disliked Eric, why I didn't trust him with my sister. I thought he would leave her and hurt her feelings when he did, just like our mother had done.

I was jolted out of my thoughts when the bus came, huffing like a tired dog as it rolled to a stop. The boy with headphones pushed past me and the rest of the people followed his lead, impatient to get on the bus. I leveled my shoulders, spotted Sasha through the window making her way towards a bus seat, and stepped aboard the bus.

* * *

With a soft sigh, the bus began to move, making its way back towards downtown London. The little girl in the back of the bus began to squeal and giggle. Some hard metal song pumped from headphone boy, who was seated a clear five rows in front of me and playing his music at an eardrum-shattering volume. Sasha was engrossed in her copy of _Lord of the Flies_ and, if not for the occasional glances upward at me and the accompanying scowls, would have appeared the same as usual. I sat in the seat next to her, my head tilted and leaning against the warm glass, gazing at the familiar surroundings of Little Whinging as they started to rush past the window.

We had lived here once. There, in the brick house across from the playground. Of course, that had been a long time ago, before my dad was stationed in New Jersey. Before my mother left us.

My dad, John Thompson, worked in the American military. Every few years or so, we would move, packing our things for another city, another state, or sometimes another country. Most of the places we had been were a blur of memories at the moment. I remembered little of Austin, Texas, my birthplace, or Springfield, or Minneapolis. We had come here, to England, when Sasha and I were about seven years old. Memories from that time were fuzzy. I vaguely remembered a few faces, a blonde, blushing girl with pigtails, a boy with dark, messy hair, a stern teacher with a ruthless glare, and a jumble of names and events from the times of our primary school days, but everything was mashed into an untidy heap somewhere inside of my brain.

After Little Whinging, we had gone to New Jersey, the place where most of my memories took place. The middle school and the high school I had gone to for the majority of my freshman year were friendly enough, I suppose, but I never did make a lot of friends in the four years I spent in them. Sure, I had had tons of "friendly acquaintances", who I would chat with idly when circumstances made it so, when they had no one else better to talk to. It's not like I had ever been the star of the show, but it wasn't like I was an inanimate blob. Yet somehow, yet again, Sasha and I had become "the Twins", pegged as parts of a unit, not individuals. Half my grade didn't know which twin I was. 50/50 chance of getting my name right. Or of course, they could go with the ever-correct "Sashalivia", just to make sure that they got my attention. As if I didn't already respond to Sasha's name because of the common confusion. Urgh.

It's not like I resented being grouped with Sasha. In fact, she was like my best friend, not that I would ever tell her that, since she would probably just laugh or act awkward. It wasn't like I was shy or reserved. And I was amused rather than annoyed when strangers that knew Sasha said a hearty hello to me, even though there were key differences in our appearances. What aggravated me was that we were seen as two interchangeable parts, even by some of our friends. When we were children, we thought it was funny that people would get us confused, and we'd play tricks and games on our friends and teachers. But now, at 15 years of age, I found it rather irksome that, although we were different, people saw us as the same, in both appearance and personality. We weren't.

Sasha sighed softly as the bus turned at an intersection, flipping her page with a flick of her finger, and I turned my glance toward her. There were so many differences. Sometimes I felt that the majority of people were partially blind or just didn't pay enough attention to details. They saw the similar features, the hazel eyes, the wavy brown hair, and our shortness and were immediately convinced we were exactly the same physically. They didn't see Sasha's different, rounder face structure, or the mole that she had on her chin that I didn't have, or the small scar by her left eyebrow from the time she had fallen on her face in sixth grade. They didn't notice I was two inches taller, that I was slightly thinner, or that I always wore my hair up and Sasha always wore hers down to help them remember who we each were. Even if they had known us for two, three, four years. However, this confusion had become a given in my life; I accepted it and expected it. There was no need to get angry or upset about it.

I pondered Sasha's relationship with Eric. She now had someone special, someone that could tell the difference, someone who enjoyed her for who she was. I had to admit I felt a little bit left out. After all, I knew her best, yet here she was, gradually growing to be further and further away from me. I knew that she snored when slept and that she was dreadfully afraid of bees. I knew that she was a grammar freak and that she could be selfish at times. I knew that she got lost easily. I knew that she was smart and immature and creative and caring. I knew everything there was to know about her because she was my older sister and my best friend. But at this moment, as I looked at her, I realized that I was no longer the key person in her life. I had to step back and let her and Eric be. I saw that I had no right to infringe upon their happiness, that I had to let go of the distrust I held for him, even if I disliked him, even if I felt a bit jealous of their happiness.

The bus was in a busier and more urban street now. As the bus' movements came to a pause at a stop light, I resumed staring out the window. Outside, adorned with a pink and green banner, was a small ice cream shop, and the first thought that popped in my head was that Mom would be smacking her lips and wishing for a butter pecan ice cream if she was beside me. And then I remembered that she wasn't at home, that she was gone and I had no idea where she was.

The bus jerked forward, but my thoughts remained on my mother. Being stationed back in England, our family had only been here a week or so when Mom had disappeared. Just up and left by the looks of it. Dad, Sasha, and I had come home from the supermarket only to find that all of Mom's clothing was missing and see a note on the dining room table that said "I've gone. Don't try to search for me. Love, Mom". Dad had been shattered ever since.

I felt the bus come to a halt and saw we had reached our destination, a bus stop just a few blocks away from our apartment. My thoughts disrupted, I nudged Sasha gently with my elbow and she nodded, stuffed her book into her bag, and proceeded to walk towards the bus exit. It seemed as if she had either forgiven me or forgotten our argument. I followed two steps behind her until we reached our apartment, opened the door, and spotted Dad, sitting upon the sofa, his arms limp at his sides, staring up at us with a vacant expression.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: Thanks to all who give reviews! And now for the notification: J. K. Rowling holds the rights to Harry Potter, not me. Hello, Captain Obvious. Anyway, hope you enjoy the second chapter!

* * *

Chapter 2: **Falling Apart**

That evening, during dinner, Dad announced that although we had only been in England for five months, he was being stationed to California. We'd be leaving in a week. Sasha was in an outrage. She shouted that she wouldn't be coming with him. She was here to stay, she assured him. She had a reason to stay here, and there was no way that she would be moving. And I knew what her "reason" was: Eric. I stood, in a kind of dazed trance, watching her as she seethed and raged until she stormed upstairs and slammed her bedroom door closed. Dad's face remained expressionless throughout the whole ordeal.

****

I knocked on Sasha's bedroom door later that night and was promptly greeted by a slightly muffled "Go the hell away, Olive." I ignored it. Walking into her room, I found her, eyes puffy and her jaw set, sitting on the edge of her bed.

"Go away," she repeated, more hoarsely than before.

"No."

Sasha eyed me threateningly, but I didn't waver. After a few seconds of silence, she broke eye contact, sniffed loudly, and spoke.

"I meant what I said," she muttered firmly, her eyes fixed somewhere upon the wall behind me. Her voice came almost as a growl, as if she expected me to contradict her sincerity.

"I know," I replied. Her eyes snapped up, and she half-smiled. "But you're wrong," I continued. "You can't stay with him." Her eyes flashed and the smile disappeared. A cold expression spread across her face and then a sneer.

"Of course you wouldn't understand," she said. "You've never been in love, have you? Never had a boyfriend! And you hate Eric! You can't stand him, I know it! Can't you just look past that?"

I opened my mouth to tell her that I had come to terms with my dislike and that moving away was not something I would wish upon them, but she interrupted.

"I will NOT just move again and tear myself away from the only person that loves me!" she screamed emotionally. I stood still, feeling as though she had slapped me.

"The only person that loves you," I whispered coolly.

"Yes," she replied matter-of-factly. "Mom's gone. Dad's been in shock since Mom left." She paused, and I thought she would say something about me. But she didn't. Instead, she merely said "The only time I feel like I belong is when I'm with Eric."

"You belong with your family," I growled. My face felt like it was hardening and my voice sounded broken.

"It's gone," she whispered. "Fallen apart."

"It has not! You still have me!" I spat angrily.

Sasha lowered her eyes. "I'm staying with Eric," she whispered.

"Eric," I laughed humorlessly. "Sasha, open your eyes and see! All this talk of love. It'll be gone in a year or so."

Sasha's expression was darkening and she opened her mouth to berate me again, but I cut her off.

"You have to realize that some people…," I took a deep breath and continued. "Some people are just temporary parts of your life. They might love you now, but sometimes life makes you leave them behind."

I exhaled. I felt drained, physically and emotionally, and my mind was blank. I felt like an idiot and I waited for Sasha to say something in defense of Eric, to yell it in my face. But instead, her face softened and simply murmured "You're right".

I stared at her. The room was silent for a few seconds. Finally, I regained control of my mouth. "What?" I said incredulously, surprised that she was agreeing with me.

"You're right," she repeated. She sighed deeply, and lay down on her bed, squeezing her eyes shut and leaning her head against her pillow. I remained motionless, a bit confused at the abrupt end to our argument.

"Goodnight, Olive," she called.

I nodded slowly and turned to exit her room.

"Olivia!" she called again.

I turned back around.

"I'm sorry."

I smiled weakly, glad to know the argument was over, and left the room. It was past midnight, and I was exhausted from all the drama. I crossed the dark hallway to my bedroom, creeping quietly so as not to wake Dad, and went into my bedroom. My energy gone, I did not bother to change into pajamas; I walked straight toward my bed and fell asleep almost as soon as my head touched the pillow.

* * *

I woke up the next morning to the honk of a horn outside my bedroom window. Bleary-eyed and debating whether to go back to sleep, I glanced at the clock on my bedside table and found that it was nearly noon.

Surprised, I hopped out of bed and made my way towards the kitchen. There was so much to do, and so little time. Everything had to be found and put away in less than a week. At the moment, however, my first and foremost priority was breakfast, and I busied myself with a search of the pantry closet. Humming happily to myself, I spotted a box of corn flakes and was pouring some into a bowl for myself when I spotted Sasha sitting at the table, already dressed for the day and spacing out on her bagel.

I sat down next to her. The room was silent except for the crunching of corn flakes. Dad had gone to work and, since Mom wasn't here anymore, the news no longer blared from the television during the day.

I gulped loudly and Sasha seemed to wake up from her bagel-staring trance. She looked me in the eye and I struck up a conversation on the topic of the day: packing.

"So," I started, stuffing more cereal in my mouth. "What's the plan? I was thinking we could start by packing up all the books on the bookshelves in the living room." Another spoonful of corn flakes entered my mouth. "And then maybe we could conquer our rooms. Now, mine will probably take a while, since it's just a bit messy, but-"

"No."

"Oh," I muttered. "Well, okay, then maybe we could-"

"Actually," Sasha said, swiping a strand of hair from her face, "I was thinking about going to see Eric today."

I stopped rambling on about organizing (something that didn't cross my mind often, mind you) and raised an eyebrow. I meant to stay silent, but a disgruntled-sounding "mmm" escaped from my mouth.

"I need to talk with him. You know, about moving and all," she said, looking at me, wide-eyed and expectant, for a sign of approval as she slowly ripped apart her bagel.

I realized that she needed to talk to him before she left and, feeling a bit guilty at the look on her face, nodded.

Sasha beamed and stood up, gathering her large messenger bag from beside her.

"Don't worry," she said as she put it over her shoulders. "I'll have my room all packed up by tonight."

I nodded again. Sasha was at the door before I knew it and she turned to face me.

"Goodbye," she called and walked out, closing the front door softly behind her. And with that, she was gone.

I sighed and finished my breakfast alone. I took a shower, and the hot water helped me feel more awake. I swept my hair up in a ponytail, donned an oversized T-shirt, some shorts, and a couple of fuzzy slippers, and began the tedious task of cleaning and packing.

* * *

I spent the next few hours categorizing and packing into boxes all the books we had. Here were Dad's old computer books, big, dusty manuals that I couldn't understand; there were all the classics, Dad's old college textbooks, and childhood stories; in another box were the favorites of Sasha and mine. While I was doing this, I came across Mom's collection of poetry and how to guides and felt an impulse to throw them all into the trash, but I suppressed it, packed it neatly into a box, and finished packing up the books. The rest of the afternoon was spent organizing the monstrosity I called my room into little brown boxes.

Feeling accomplished from my packing success of the day, I headed to Sasha's room. She still hadn't come home and I foresaw that she might be grumpy and moody when she returned. Thinking that I would pack some of her clothes for her and not bother her about helping tonight, I went into her bedroom and shuffled through the closet and her chest of drawers, only to find that a good deal of her clothes and her piggy bank were gone. Puzzled, I spun my gaze around my room. My eyes finally came to rest on the only object out of the normal place in her room, a note taped to her mirror on the wall. A sense of foreboding crept over me as I started to read it, and I knew, even before I finished, what it would say.

_Olive_, it read,

_I know that you don't what to hear these things that I am about to tell you in this letter and that this will put a huge amount of stress on you, but I can't go without making sure you'll know. I'm leaving to be with Eric. I don't want to move away from him. I love him. I know you don't understand. I know that you don't like him and that you will probably think I'm being irrational and immature. Maybe I am, but Eric needs me right now. I'm sorry. You and Dad are important to me, but Eric is even more important. He's in a complicated situation and needs my support. I'm going away with him. I can't really explain all the details, but I can tell you that I truly want to stay by his side. I've already taken all the things I need and we're leaving together. Please understand. _

_I'll miss you._

_-Sasha_

I finished reading the note and, on the second time that I read it, the reality of the news sank in and I stood stock-still. I wasn't panicking or crying. I just stood in silence feeling betrayed and angry. Betrayal because she was had deserted me. Anger because evidently I was not only not important enough, but also not worthy of the complete truth. It was like a repeat of what happened with Mom, only worse. The two feelings warred inside of me for a while until the slam of the front door echoed through the house and indicated that Dad had come back from work. Or rather, the bar as I soon found out.

I had never seen Dad drunk before. When I met him in the living room, he was approaching me with a swaying kind of swagger. His expression was off, his stance was different, his hair disheveled. The corners of his mouth rose when he saw me.

I observed him cautiously. I didn't know what to do. He was obviously drunk. The smell of alcohol perforated the air and become stronger as he approached. I needed to tell him, though. I needed to tell him about Sasha. I didn't know if he would (or could) help in this state, but I needed to tell him. I gulped and began to speak.

"Dad," I said shakily. "Dad, I need to tell you something."

"Whassh the matter," he bellowed. The sound stung my ears and made me jump.

I backed away from him and continued, trying to sound a bit firmer. "Sasha…She's gone. She's gone somewhere with her boyfriend. I don't know where. Dad, she's not coming back; she told me about it in a note she left. She's run away."

He laughed a strange laugh that was too loud. "Don't kid about stuff like that, 'Livia," he said. He was putting emphasis on weird parts of his words, and I was beginning to feel more anxious.

"I'm not. I'm serious," I said earnestly.

His face contorted and he suddenly stepped forward; his hand swung out and whipped toward me with all the strength he had, and I staggered and felt the sting of a slap on my face before I could react.

"DON'T!" he yelled, slapping me again and slamming me against the wall. His voice thundered in my ears.

After a few seconds, he laughed again. "Apple sure don't fall far from the tree, huh? Well, they can both leave if they want. I don't care anymore. Don't care! Let them deal with the world on their own, I say!" He took a deep breath, and his whole body seemed to quiver. And with that, he released me, muttered something unintelligible under his breath, made his way towards the couch, and plopped down with a huge _thump_. Within a minute, he was asleep, snoring deeply and loudly.

I squinted at him, indignant and, to be honest, a bit disdainful. If this had been any other day before that day, if Mom had been there, or if Sasha hadn't gone, things probably wouldn't have played out how they did. Mom would have been able to appease Dad. Sasha would have been able to sympathize and calm me down. But, as it happened, neither of them was there and I had been there in that apartment alone with a father who had decided for some reason that that day was a good day to drown his sorrows and self-pity in alcohol.

Something inside of me had snapped. And now there was no way in hell I was staying. As soon as I knew that Dad was asleep for sure, I rushed to my bedroom and found the biggest backpack I could. Breathing heavily, I stuffed as many of my belongings and clothes as I could into it and took all the money I had and put it into my wallet. Slipping on some sneakers, I rushed out of my bedroom, backpack in hand, heart racing.

I walked swiftly back to the living room and was at the front door when I paused. I wasn't sure what I was doing or what I would do. This wasn't smart. This wasn't sensible. I shouldn't be leaving my family like this. But then Dad gave a big snore and I walked right out the door. I wasn't leaving my family, I realized; it had already left me, given up, and fallen apart. I stepped out from the apartment complex and caught the last bus of the day to Little Whinging. Adrenaline pumped through my veins and the only thought in my head was of finding Sasha.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: **Encounter of a Strange Sort**

I'm not sure what exactly I expected to accomplish that evening. Sasha had left the apartment hours ago, which meant that she and Eric were probably long gone before I even discovered the note. The truth was that I had no plan whatsoever of what I would do and that the first time I thought about inquiring with Eric's parents was when I knocked on the door of the house in Little Whinging that I had visited only a day ago.

An old lady with enormous, thick glasses and a vivaciously pink bathrobe answered the door. She eyed me curiously and then cleared her throat, kindly waiting for me to reveal why I was on her doorstep. I jolted myself into action.

"Hello, Mrs…," I started. "Mrs…" I realized I didn't know Eric's last name and continued onward. "I'm…a friend of Eric's. I was just wondering if you could tell me where he's gone."

"Eric?" she responded questioningly. "No one named Eric lives here, dear. You must have the wrong house."

I glanced at the address plate and shook my head. "No, this is the house. I was here yesterday; I'm sure this is it," I replied, half speaking to myself. I furrowed my eyebrows and looked at the woman. "Listen, I really need to know where Eric went. My sister is with him."

"Sorry, but you must be mistaken," she said gently. "I told you. Nobody named Eric lives here."

"But this is his house! I've been here befo-" I said, growing annoyed.

"That's just not possible, sweetie," she said. "You see, Bert-my husband- and I…we've been on a cruise for a month. We just got back an hour ago. This house has been empty until just now. You must be thinking of a different house."

I scowled, looking from the address plate back to the lady's face back to the address plate as if the woman would suddenly explain "Just kidding!" and tell me where Eric was. The old woman looked at me with a sympathetic expression. "Sorry that I couldn't help you, dear," she said in a low voice. With a small grimace, she closed the door softly, eliminating what little chance I had had of finding Sasha. I stood silently at the doorstep for a while, completely baffled and upset about my whole situation. And then, without making a conscious decision, I turned and started down Magnolia Crescent, my steps echoing down the empty streets.

I walked down the darkening street with no particular direction or motive except to distance myself from where I had been. There was nowhere that I could head to except…well, back to the apartment. I scoffed to myself at the thought. I knew that I would probably have to return at some point or another; I had no means to support myself, no relatives or friends here in England that would take me in. But that didn't stop me from balking at the idea of returning to my dad. I knew what awaited me there: at best, an apology and then a move to California; at worst, a repeat of tonight over the next few years and more of Dad drinking to fill the gap that Sasha had left.

For the moment, I pushed all thoughts of Dad and moving out of my mind and tried to blot out my anxiety and anger, concentrating on the sound of my breathing and my footsteps.

_Tap, tap, tap_. I breathed in and out, trying to slow down my erratic breathing. A lone car went down the road, and I turned from Magnolia Crescent into a dark alleyway. My hair was beginning to fall out of my ponytail, sticking to my face, but I didn't care.

_Tap, tap, tap_. Images of Sasha and Mom floated into my brain. I felt my face harden and my chest clench. Tears were building up, but I stiffened my upper lip and walked forward.

_Tap, tap, tap_. I wasn't paying attention to where I was or what was around me. With every step I took, I felt as if I was sinking within myself into a lower level of sadness. But I couldn't go back. Not to the old lady's house. Not to my dad. Not now.

And then suddenly a boy's voice rang out through the night, a horrified yell that pierced the air and awoke me to my surroundings.

"DUDLEY, COME BACK! YOU'RE RUNNING RIGHT AT IT!"

I squinted, stumbling forward through the darkness, my left hand against a wall of the alleyway. The sounds of yells and scuffling echoed and through it all I could hear deep, rasping breathing that made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I shivered in the strange coldness that had leaked into the summer air.

The rattling breathing grew louder, and I felt like I couldn't breathe, like icy hands were clenching around my lungs. It was so dark- so very, very dark- and I felt as if I would never be happy again, as if the loneliness that was coursing through me was the only thing that existed. I stepped back instinctively from the chill, but it was now behind me before I knew it somewhere in the direction that I had come from.

"_Lumos!"_

The boy's voice came from somewhere to my right, and with it came an eruption of light.

The boy, bespectacled, tall, and lanky, stood, was wielding some kind of glowing stick. However, I was more concerned with the dark, hooded figure approaching us. It loomed above me, a tower of inhumanity, not four feet from where I was. I gasped as its grimy, scabbed hands reached for me, its mouth coming ever closer to mine. I stood, frozen in fear, as this…thing came toward me.

"_Expecto Patronum!"_

The boy beside me let out a yell and made a motion with his stick. I would have thought he was an idiot and a lunatic if I hadn't been…well, a bit preoccupied. However, to my amazement, a silvery wisp flowed from what I then realized was a wand of sorts. The creature stopped for an instant, and I, regaining control of my legs, scrambled behind the boy, anxious for help, anxious to distance myself from this cold isolation.

The hooded figure resumed its advance, and the boy repeated the spell, more feebly then before. A narrow, silver strand came from the wand and my stomach dropped in horror as I sensed the boy's strength waning. The creature was looming a yard away, and I grabbed the wand from the boy's hand and stepped out from behind him. I attempted to mimic his motion and his words, but the same feeble, silver smoke came from the wand.

I cleared my throat and raised the wand again. And as I did, a wave of hopelessness hit me. The hooded creature was steps away, and as it came closer I felt as if my life was being drained from me, as if I had no hope of defeating it or being anywhere besides this dark, unhappy place. I shook my head and jolted myself from my sorrow. I didn't want to die. I didn't want to stay here. I wanted to accomplish something. I wanted to see Sasha. I wanted to see my sister again. I filled my thoughts with her, with the possibilities the future held.

"_Expecto Patronum!"_ I roared. A shining, silver wolf burst from the wand tip, scampering toward the dark creature. It jumped and knocked over the hooded monster. The monster dove away, and swept away, beaten and unsatisfied, into the night. My wolf howled in delight.

I stared in wonder for a moment at the creature I had produced, but as its eyes met mine, it faded away. I felt the wand snatched from my hand, and I turned to see the boy running in the opposite direction. Conjuring another Patronus, the boy coaxed forth his animal, a stunning, luminescent stag, toward another hooded figure, which was stooped over a large, bulky boy on the ground. "Get it!" he screamed, and with that, the dark creature, thrown by the tackle of the galloping stag, soared away into the night.

The natural light of the evening reappeared. The stars twinkled above the alleyway, and the streetlights came back into focus.

Wand Boy (as I had dubbed him in my head since his name was unknown) was bent over the chubby, whimpering boy, his dark, messy hair covering his eyes. I crept up next to him and squinted at his face.

"Hey," I said.

I got no response.

"Hey, you think he's okay? What did that thing do to him?"

Wand Boy continued his attempt to help up the blubbering boy, an arduous and consuming task it seemed.

I turned my attention to the heavy boy, and my eyes widened in disbelief. There, his eyes hollow and his face coated in cold sweat, was Dudley Dursley, the bully of my childhood; even after all those years, I could recognize that face. This was the boy that had teased me constantly about my "low", "nasal" American accent for years and years. But his once arrogant, sneering expression had vanished, and instead his mouth was bent in a horrified gasp.

"Dudley Dursley?" I whispered, astonished.

Wand Boy's face snapped in my direction, and he unintentionally dropped Dudley. The resulting crash caused a tremor at my feet that I barely managed to evade.

"How do you know that name?" He said, his voice gruff and suspicious. The next moment, his wand was pointed directly at me, inches from my nose. I flinched at the sudden movement.

"Who are you?" he asked warily. "Were you the one who sent the dementors?"

"What the-"

"Are you a Death Eater?" he interrupted.

"Listen, you," I eyed Wand Boy angrily. "I have no clue what you're talking. I just went to Dudley's primary school years back, that's all."

He surveyed my expression doubtfully. He reached out and grasped my wrist tightly. I tried to resist, but he held it firmly, flipped it over, and inspected my forearm. Whatever he found there seemed to satisfy him because he muttered "No Dark Mark", dropped my arm, and put the wand down.

"Sorry," he muttered sheepishly.

"It's nothing," I replied, thoroughly confused, but definitely not complaining about the absence of wand in my face. I crossed my arms defensively.

A lightning-shaped scar jutted out from the cover of his bangs, and the combination of the glasses, the scar, and the boy's face sparked something deep back in my mind. A far, distant memory prodded my brain and reminded me that his name was Larry or Gary or something along those lines, and I opened my mouth to start a tirade of interrogation. There were so many questions whirling around in my head at the moment about the creature, about the glowing animals, about him and the death-majiggers, but before I had any chance to pose them to Wand Boy, I heard the shuffling of footsteps.

An aged, frazzled-looking woman in a hairnet stood before us, panting, with a hand over her heart in shock. Wand Boy made a move to hide his wand from her, but the women shrieked in disapproval.

"Don't put it away, idiot boy!" she yelled hysterically. "What if there are more of them around? Oh, I'm going to _kill_ Mundungus Fletcher!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note**: Happy Easter to you all, my dear readers! Today was wonderful, what with all the chocolate and writing. Of course, my Calculus homework has yet to be finished...Well, whatever. The weekend is drawing to a close, which means the next update may have to wait for another week or so. Be patient and diligent, and I'll try to update as soon as possible.

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Chapter Four: **Reassurance in Chaos**

"Mrs. Figg?" Wand Boy asked incredulously.

"Oooh, just wait 'til I get my hands on that scoundrel! I _told _him, I TOLD HIM I'd beat him myself if he left for those stupid cauldrons! I'm going to _kill _him! Dementors! In Little Whinging! Attacking Harry Potter, no less! Oooh, I'm going to _kill _Mundungus Fletcher!" she yelled furiously, hobbling toward us.

_Harry Potter_. That's what Wand Boy's name was. I cleared my throat.

"Excuse me," I piped up. "Could someone please tell me what the HELL is going on here?"

Mrs. Figg eyed me curiously. "Who _are_ you?" she said, scanning me with a questioning gaze.

"Olivia Thompson," I replied, irritated. What did it matter what my name was? I wanted an explanation, a quick, direct explanation of all this craziness.

Mrs. Figg squinted her eyes at me, inquisitive and probing, for a moment and then turned her attention to Harry. "We need to get out of here. Keep that wand out; there might be more dementors about. Get that oaf off the ground. Up, you dolt, get up!" she screeched at Dudley, who was still lying on the ground, pale and whimpering, evidently reluctant to exhibit individual movement.

"I've got it," Harry said. He seized one of Dudley's thick arms and tugged. Dudley let out a low moan and rose slightly. Honestly, I was surprised Harry had even accomplished that; Dudley was a heavy boy and his legs looked to be as sturdy as jello.

"Mind giving a hand?" Harry said, staggering and looking at me for help. I shifted my backpack and uneasily approached Dudley. Wrapping one of his arms around my shoulder, I grimaced and nodded at Harry, and we both tugged firmly. Dudley wobbled for a moment and then pressed all of his weight on us both, opting not to put any effort whatsoever into standing on his own.

Harry and I struggled for a few seconds under the new, immense weight. Dragging Dudley, one of his arms around each of our shoulders, we edged forward toward the street while Dudley groaned and Mrs. Figg continued to rant.

"Oh, there's going to be hell to pay! Breaking the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery…this is exactly what Dumbledore was afraid of. Ugh, I'm going to _kill _Mundungus Fletcher!" she howled.

"Mrs. Figg, are you…are you a witch? Why didn't you ever tell me?" Harry's voice came as a surprised whisper to my side. I threw him a confused look, but he ignored it and stared intently at the old lady.

"Dumbledore's orders. I was supposed to keep an eye on you. I'm a squib," she replied, "and Mundungus bloody well knows it. Thank goodness I had Mr. Tibbles on your trail to keep up the guard, but by the time he warned me and I arrived, you'd left your house. And now- you and Olivia- oh, I'M GOING TO KILL YOU, MUNDUNGUS FLETCHER!" she shrieked.

Wow, my day had pretty much been hell, but it would have really sucked to have been Mundungus Fletcher at that moment. Mrs. Figg's wrath was something to behold.

"Wait a minute," Harry said gruffly. "Guard? This bloke Mundungus has been following me? So he's the one that Apparated right outside my house!"

"Yes, yes" Mrs. Figg answered as we walked down Wisteria Way. "Damn it, where is he? He was supposed to here until midnight and…what are we going to do? Dumbledore needs to be informed right away and I can't Apparate. An owl would be way too slow and-"

A sound like a gunshot came from right in front of me. I screamed and recoiled, nearly dropping Dudley. A grimy man, short and disheveled, appeared out of nowhere, carrying with him a silvery cloak and a strange, awful smell.

"Whasshup, Figgy?" he said bemusedly. He glanced at Harry and me, then turned to Mrs. Figg again. "What 'appened to stayin' undercover?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "And whash with the girl?"

"Oh, I'll tell you what's with her, Mundungus!" Mrs. Figg snarled. "Dementors! Here!" His eyes widened, and she continued. "On your watch! You! You no-good. Useless. Slimy. Vermin!" She was hitting him now, quite violently, really, with the shopping bag she had been carrying while Mundungus cowered before her. I cringed. Harry caught my eye, and we both grimaced at each other.

Having beaten Mundungus enough for her satisfaction, Mrs. Figg straightened up and sighed heavily. "Okay," she said, regaining her composure. "You'll need to Apparate and report this…incident to Dumbledore. Before you do, though, drop this girl…Olivia off with the Order. Get Moody and then go straight to Dumbledore. Right away, you hear? No dallying with any STUPID CAULDRONS!" Her voice began to build up again, and Mundungus flinched.

"Yessum," he replied hoarsely, his bloodstained eyes lowered. He held out an arm out. "Come here and hold tight," he told me. I looked at him, cocking my head as I always did when I had no clue what was going on.

"Whoa there," I said crossly, backing slowly away from him, a difficult maneuver when you're supporting half of Dudley's weight. "What's going on? What the? This talk of Apparating and CAULDRONS and…and de-dementors?! And you!" I pointed at Mundungus. "You just came out of thin air! What the fu-"

"Olivia." Mrs. Figg said my name softly but firmly. "Go with Mundungus. You'll be good and safe. Everything will be explained later." She breathed deeply, and I began to notice her exhaustion. "Everything will be fine. I promise."

I studied her for a while and then nodded. I peeked around Dudley's head and stole a glance at Harry.

He smiled weakly but encouragingly at me. "Go," he whispered. And although I knew none of these people, although Harry didn't remember me and I barely remembered him, although I was thoroughly and utterly confused with the situation, I felt reassured for the first time since I had discovered Sasha's disappearance. At any rate, this opportunity seemed more hopeful than what waited for me back at Dad's apartment.

I fidgeted and then squirmed out from underneath Dudley. Harry assumed Dudley's full weight, and Mrs. Figg rushed over to him, taking hold of one of Dudley's arms.

"Merlin's beard," she muttered darkly. "Come on, you fat buffoon. Harry, move along, we're almost at your house."

I turned to Mundungus Fletcher, who grinned toothily at me. He extended his arm to me, and I took it.

"Yull have ta 'old it tighter, girly," he told me. I grasped his hairy arm tighter, until I was pretty sure that I was cutting off circulation.

"Good," he said, meeting my eyes. "You asked 'bout Appartin' before. Well, you're about to experience it."

Mundungus winked at me, and the next thing I knew, Little Whinging had disappeared, and the world turned black, narrowing in around me.

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_Hm. I may have made Mundungus sound a bit like a pirate. What I was aiming for was a Cockney accent, but ah well. Please review, my lovely readers. It would give your Wanda a ton of happiness!_


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note**: Hello, dear readers. It's been two weeks since my last update, and I apologize for the long wait. I was buried under a mountain of homework and orchestra rehearsals and therefore unable to get a sufficient amount of sleep (let alone write). Calculus beat me to a raw pulp. In other news, Catch has amassed over 200 visitors! A special thanks to all who favorited, alerted, and reviewed the story. Thanks again for your patience, everybody. And now, for the chapter. Enjoy!

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Chapter Five: **Arrival at Grimmauld Place**

After a few agonizing moments of darkness and suffocating pressure, we emerged into a new and unfamiliar scene. Gasping for breath, I released Mundungus' arm, and my knees buckled beneath me, evidently in protest to the Apparation. I cursed quietly under my breath and decided I much preferred the good, ol' subway as my means of transportation.

Mundungus tugged me up by the arm and, with a small gesture that indicated I should stay put, began to move toward the row of shabby, grubby houses that lay in front of us across the road. I bit my lip, anxious and wondering what awaited me with this "Order" that Mrs. Figg had mentioned. There was no way of turning back now. I fidgeted uneasily and then turned, shifting my gaze to survey my new surroundings.

I was standing upon a patch of long, unkempt grass, which contained quite its share of old cigarette butts and empty water bottles. Silent and empty in the balmy evening, the neighborhood square bordered a series of dark, dilapidated houses, dull and adorned with broken glass windows. The streetlights sputtered feebly, their glow fizzling in and out, casting the street periodically into total darkness.

I became aware that Mundungus was talking and turned back around to see two men listening to him intently as he spoke in a low, urgent tone. One man, tall and thin, stood silently and absorbed everything Mundungus said with a nod. He threw me a quick glance, and then, adjusting his glasses and running his fingers nervously through his bright red hair, looked at the other stranger, a scarred, older man with a wooden leg. This man scowled and growled for a short while, but finally nodded. Mundungus motioned for me to come forward and, with a crack like a whip, vanished.

I walked across the road to meet the two, almost tripping as I stepped up onto the pavement. The older man observed me suspiciously with one of his mismatched eyes. His other eye, unnerving and electric blue, swiveled around as he introduced himself as Alastor Moody and the other man as Arthur Weasley.

After a few moments, Mr. Weasley nudged Moody softly with his elbow.

"Give her the note," he whispered.

Moody dug into one of his pockets and extracted a piece of paper. By the flickering light of the lampposts, I quickly read the message: "The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London."

I looked up at the houses in front of us. We were standing between numbers eleven and thirteen.

_Where was number twelve, Grimmauld Place?_

The thought had no sooner passed through my mind than a door appeared. Pushing aside houses numbers one and twelve, filthy walls and windows emerged, and an entire house materialized out of nowhere. My mouth fell ajar.

"In we go," Mr. Weasley said cheerily, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

_Hadn't anybody in the houses felt that?_, I wondered.

The street remained silent and nobody came out. Evidently no one inside had noticed.

"Move. Quickly," Moody growled at me. "You never know whose eyes are watching you out here in the open."

I walked up the stone steps, and Mr. Weasley tapped the freshly-materialized door with his wand. The lock clicked, and the door slowly swung open. Moody ushered me forward, and I stepped over the threshold and into the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

* * *

Halfway down a dark and gloomy hallway, a short, plump woman with flaming red hair popped her head out from a doorway.

"Arthur, dear, who is that?" she said.

Walking down the hallway to us, she greeted me with a warm, kind expression.

"Well, a new face! Haven't seen one of those in a while. My name's Molly. Molly Weasley. And you are?"

"Olivia Thompson." I tried to say my name with a little liveliness, but it came out instead as a mechanical response.

The smile on her face faltered, and she turned to Mr. Weasley.

"My goodness, the girl looks dead on her feet!" she exclaimed. I grimaced.

Mr. Weasley gave her a brief explanation of what had happened, a summary of what Mundungus had told him. I chipped in now and then to add details and assure her of Harry's safety (which she seemed highly concerned about). Moody, who now seemed less suspicious of me than before, asked Mrs. Weasley to take me upstairs to bed and then gather the other Order members for an emergency meeting.

She nodded and guided me through the dark, gloomy atmosphere. We walked by cobwebby furniture and rusted candelabras and snuck softly past a moth-eaten pair of curtains. I gawked at a collection of odd mounted heads on the wall, but Mrs. Weasley prodded me forward and led me up a staircase.

Finally, turning a snake-shaped doorknob, we came to a bedroom. It was a dank and tiny room that contained only a bed and a dusty wardrobe, but I felt relieved at the sight of an opportunity to relax.

"It's not much," Mrs. Weasley told me, sighing heavily. "But it's the only thing we have to offer."

I shook my head and gave her a feeble attempt at a smile. "It's great. Thank you."

"Goodnight, dear. Sleep well."

She turned to go, but then stopped short of the doorway.

"Oh," she said, smacking her forehead lightly. "Almost forgot to tell you. Bolt the door when I leave. Otherwise, Kreacher will come in in the middle of the night and scare you half to death."

I had no idea who or what this "Kreacher" was, but, at that point, it was the least of my worries. I nodded wearily, and Mrs. Weasley left the room, closing the door gently behind her. I bolted the door as she instructed and, tossing my backpack to the side into a corner of the room, threw myself onto the bed. A long day's worth of fatigue hit me in one powerful swoop, and sleep overwhelmed me.

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_Reviews would be very much appreciated._


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Something**

I sat up on the bed the next morning with a terrible, pulsating headache and kneaded my temples. I felt positively and completely awful.

There was no gap in memory, no period of forgetfulness, of blissful ignorance and confusion about whether last night was a dream or why I was in some strange, unfamiliar room. I opened my eyes to my surroundings and became painfully aware of the reality as I registered them. I missed my father. I missed my sister. And I felt an overwhelming love and disdain for them both. I felt angry and worried and frustrated because of _them_. There was this horrible pang in my chest because of _them_, and it felt like I had just gone down a drop on a roller coaster, as like I had plummeted so far so quickly that I had left something vital behind.

I flipped over and submerged my head under a pillow. Squeezing my eyelids shut, I tried to burrow into the moth-eaten bedcovers and just disappear. I felt horrible. Horrible, horrible, horrible. This choking sensation grasped at my heart and I wanted to cry, to just release all my frustration and distress, but somehow I just couldn't. I sighed heavily, consumed by my thoughts.

Where was I going to go from here?

I threw the question away with a sneer. I didn't even know where I was at the moment.

I fidgeted and turned to face the ceiling. All I knew was that this place was occupied by the Order. What was this "Order"? And what exactly had happened last night? There was no logical explanation for, say, a house popping out of nowhere. Or the concept of Apparition. Or the wolf that had sprung from the stick I'd waved. And, anyway, what did little (_well, not anymore_ I admitted) Harry Potter from my old primary school have to do with them? My headache responded with an especially painful thump.

I lay in the bed for a long while, allowing my despair to wash over me, rage through me, and deflate slightly. Deflate, not disappear. But I couldn't just stay here all day and mope. Answers were what Mrs. Figg had promised me. I didn't know exactly what I'd do once I learned exactly what was behind all the strange happenings. But it was a start. An action. _Something_.

A sharp, scratching noise came from the door and my eyes shot towards it. _A cat?_I wondered hopefully. I hoped it was a cat. I'd had a cat for a while as a kid, and holding it and petting it had always helped to relieve some of my anger and frustration.I hoped it was a nice cat, that it wouldn't scratch me to death if I pet it.

Anyway, at least the thought gave me the motivation to get up and get going with the day; I crawled out of bed and decided to get dressed as long as I was up. The scratching became more persistent and grating. I hurried over to my backpack. The zipper stuck and I yanked it hard, pulling out some clothes.

The backpack stirred up thoughts of last night. Come to think of it, where would I have been if I hadn't run into Harry and been attacked by dementors? I looked at the meager amount of belongings in the backpack and I couldn't help but feel relieved to be here, not out on the streets, not with my dad.

_Scriiiiiiiitch_.

I went to the door and unbolted it.

"Honestly," I muttered, swinging it open. "You're going to claw through the do-"

I stopped. It wasn't a cat. It was a man. Only, he didn't look human. For one, he was short, shorter than any man I had ever seen. He looked very old, and his wrinkled skin was completely bald, covered by nothing but a dirty, tattered loincloth. His ears were pointed and extremely large compared to his head; his nose was long and snout-like. He glared up at me with huge, round, critical eyes. I gawked at him.

"Kreacher was told to check upon the young Miss," he said gruffly with a stiff bow. Straightening up, he muttered to himself "Filthy, unclean blood that she is. Oh, if my poor Mistress only knew…"

"Exc_use_ me?" I said indignantly. "What exactly is wrong with my blood?"

"Why, Kreacher said nothing about blood. The young Miss must be daydreaming," he said, bowing again. He gnashed his teeth and added in a quieter but quite audible voice "Nasty, disgusting slime. Oh, if my poor, poor Mistress only _knew_, she would be outraged at what they are doing to this house. Oh, if she only kne-"

He stopped short as a tall man emerged from down the hallway and Kreacher bowed ridiculously low, so much so that his long, snout-like nose practically scraped the floor.

"I told you to check on her, not _insult_ her, Kreacher." The man's tone had a pointed quality, laced with a tinge of hatred and an air of authority.

I stood in the doorway, not sure what to make of him, as Kreacher bowed (for the umpteenth time) and retreated, mumbling apologies and profanities.

I studied the man. His dark, shaggy hair fell into his eyes, and, with his free hand, he swept it out of his face. From the other hand dangled a plastic bag, full of what seemed to be dead rats.

"Sorry about that," he said apologetically. "Kreacher can be quite…" His nose crinkled. "Intolerable at times."

I shrugged. Insults to my blood didn't exactly get me all riled up…I had yet to understand what Kreacher had actually meant and the meaning of blood in the Wizarding World. The putrid scent of dead rats wafted toward me, and I covered my nostrils.

The man laughed, a hoarse but calming sound. "I was just carrying these up to Buckbeak…He likes to have a little snack in the mornings." He winked at me. "Molly said that you would have some questions. If you want, I could answer some."

He started walking again, humming softly to himself, and I hesitated for only a second before my curiosity got the better of me and I joined him at his side.

* * *

The man introduced himself as Sirius Black. Evidently Mrs. Weasley had caught on to the fact that I was new to the Wizarding World. And with such intelligent and eloquently-phrased statements as "Then the giant, white, smoky wolf…thing came out of the stick" that had come out of my mouth last night, I'm sure it took a stunning amount of intellect to figure out. At any rate, she had told Sirius about last night's occurrences and now here he was, giving me a basic introduction to the magical world.

Magical creatures were the first subject he broached. Sirius started with the ones I had already encountered. The dementors of last night were the happiness-eating creatures that guarded Azkaban, the wizard jail, where he had once stayed. They were awful, horrifying creatures, he told me, that could suck out one's soul with a Kiss. I shuddered, remembering how close I had been to one just hours ago. Next, was Kreacher, who, as Sirius frankly pointed out, was an old house elf and not a demented midget with gigantic ears as I had originally thought.

We stopped in front of a door, from which came a series of scuffs and snorts. This was his old mum's room, Sirius muttered contemptuously, but now it was home to Buckbeak the hippogriff. My eyes round, I inhaled sharply, intrigued and curious now, recognizing the name from mythology. Sirius hesitated, squinting at me and pondering the risks, then nodded to himself and conceded.

"All right," he said, grinning at my excited expression. He gave me a quick warning to bow, maintain eye contact, and let the creature have the first movement before he swung open the door, revealing the stunning beast, half-bird, half-horse, waiting for its scrumptious morning snack of lifeless rats.

* * *

It had been early morning when we went in, but hours later, we still sat in the dusty, old room, exchanging questions and answers.

After a successful introduction to Buckbeak, Sirius had begun to expand his explanation of the Wizarding World. It had taken a long time to grip everything that he said. The concept of magic went against the straight, defined world I had been used to, where there was a logical explanation for worldly events. But, I had to come to grips with it eventually; that itself didn't take long for me to accept. It was either that I had A) popped into the hidden world of magic or that I had B) gone completely crazy, imagining all of yesterday's strange events. I had always held a good deal of confidence in my own sanity so I chose option A.

What took the longest was trying to comprehend the Wizarding World. Sirius told me only the "bare essentials" of it, yet it seemed so expansive and complex to me, and he had to repeat certain facts multiple times. Sometimes, I nodded. Sometimes, I argued. Sometimes, I just sat back, completely confused. At long last, I repeated everything that I had retained from his explanations as Sirius stroked Buckbeak's beak gently with his forefinger.

Hogwarts was a school for Witchcraft and Wizardry. Albus Dumbledore, a highly regarded and important member of the Order, was headmaster there.

The Ministry of Magic was the law enforcement. Harry and I had broken some statute against underage magic use.

Magical creatures…existed. Unicorns, dragons, sea monsters, and many more…they were all real.

The list went on and on. There were many, many other things that Sirius told me about, a majority of which I committed to memory and some of which went in one ear and out the other. The topics which Sirius discussed the most urgency and which stuck most strongly in my mind, though, were those about Lord Voldemort or (He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named) , Harry Potter, and the Order of the Phoenix.

It was late morning and Sirius and I had settled into silence. I had no more questions I needed (or wanted) to ask and Sirius had no more answers he needed or wanted to provide. Sirius ran his calloused hands through Buckbeak's glossy feathers, smiling softly as Buckbeak nudged him approvingly. And I sat, thinking, cross-legged on the hard, unforgiving floor, my face resting on my hand, looking as dust particles floated through the damp air, catching the light and then fading into the shadows.

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**Author's Note:** I have a very important announcement, which I'll be publishing as the next chapter very soon, that I would like all of my readers to see.


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:**

I want a beta.

I want a wall to bounce my ideas off of, a person to tell me where to improve, where I need to work on my style. I want a fan of this pairing, a person with high expectations, who will advise me on where to expand, where to add more imagery. I don't need the human equivalent of spell check; I'm pretty good with grammar and spelling on my own. But, of course, a good, solid foundation of the English language is a must. I want a person who will have friendly correspondence with me and offer insight. I want a creative, critical mind on my side. I want someone who will critique me, cajole me, and nudge me if I'm getting off track and should change a few things. And, for the sake of this story, I would like someone who has read the Harry Potter books so I can have a point of reference. I want a good beta I can trust, who will stick with me in the highs and lows of my story, if I decide to continue with it, offering what I need: advice.

I'm new to writing. I've never had a beta before, so I'm not quite sure how to go about getting one or how this relationship will work out. Thus, I posted this announcement.

I realize I have high expectations of a beta, but this is what I want. If you are interested and believe you can meet or exceed my expectations, then please message me.

Thanks :-)


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